


Birds Flying Away

by Cowboy_Sneep_Dip



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Fire Emblem: Awakening Spoilers, Forbidden Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Love Letters, Robin's backstory is just like that huh, largely canon-compliant until...it stops being that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 07:49:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16193225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cowboy_Sneep_Dip/pseuds/Cowboy_Sneep_Dip
Summary: Robin flees through the desert, leaving behind a life of cruelty and torture, fleeing the shadow of the man that sired her for a dark and nefarious purpose. She buries her past in tomes and tactics and tireless service to the Exalt.Lady Emmeryn, the Exalt, the beacon of promise, leads her nation as they are pushed ever closer to the brink of war. She has little but the sword of her brother, the wise words of the mysterious tactician at her side, and her own troubled past.Together, in the face of war and hatred, they forge a future of light and hope.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! Gosh can you believe I've never written Emmeryn? Hope y'all enjoy.
> 
> Thanks to @I_eat_Lazers for commissioning me!

Robin tugs her cloak tighter around her arms, trying in vain to ward off the chill. She can feel it creeping through the worn fabric, wind sifting like a cold stream through moth-holes and tears, drawing a pattern of goosebumps across her bare skin under the fabric. Her clothes are suited for the harsh desert, not this. Her cloak is meant to block the sun, not keep out the chill of winter. Snowmelt settles on her shoulders and dampens her hair, and when she shivers and shakes her head, a flutter of white flakes cascades from her like sparkles of sugar. She sneezes and pulls her hood over her head.

It’s a grey day, cold, and by all accounts miserable. Her boots sink an inch into the fresh snow as she paces around camp, mind racing. She’s too busy to be cold.

She counts tents as she walks - it’s habit by now, running through numbers and names and supplies, her mental calculations pooling in her brain as she tries to estimate the daily rations needed for the upcoming snow. Warmth would be a factor, now, as would more food. More frequent rest. She counts the tents and begins doing the math - an extra blanket per tent would be fine. The soldiers could huddle.

She stops, the crunching snow silenced as she peers at the armory. Steel swords are still too expensive - until they can secure the proper funding, they would have to make do with iron, or even bronze, for the less experienced soldiers. The cold could make metal brittle. She would need extra vulneraries, until they could outfit the healers. She sneezes again.

Ferox’s borders are not meant to be closed. Regna Ferox is a land of warriors, proud men and women, true, but this was a surprise. The Risen plague was setting everyone on edge, it seemed, and the border was locked down tight some time before the Shepherds’ arrival. Robin breathed a silent prayer of relief that the Exalt had not come with them - she was unsuited to combat, and this diplomatic mission was quickly turning into something else entirely. Robin kneels in the snow and traces out letters with one slender, dark finger. She writes numbers, abandoning her mental math in favor of something more concrete.

“Parchment might help.”

Robin looks up, her dark eyes narrowing. “No reason to trouble yourself on my behalf, milord.”

The Exalt’s brother stands tall above her, his ridiculous attire made all the more silly by the weather. He folds his arms over his chest. “I’d rather you do the math right. One sheet can certainly be spared.”

“I don’t make mistakes,” Robin stood, lashing out a boot and sending a shower of snow cascading over her work. “Have Stahl outfit the cavalry with bronze lances. It isn’t worth the investment in iron.”

Chrom frowns. “Cheaper materials may break in the cold.”

Robin sighs and rubs her temples. “Yes, and iron, too. If supplies are to freeze and shatter, I would rather them be easily replaceable.”

“You’re counting on supplies breaking? Remember whose coffers you draw from.” Chrom stares at her, his gaze somewhere between curiosity and irritation. He shivers, rubbing warmth back into his bare shoulder.

Robin laughs, and her voice rings clear in the silent snow. “Perhaps with the saved money we can afford you a new sleeve, milord.”

Chrom scowls. “At any rate, Sir Frederick was looking for you.”

Robin’s smile melts. “Sir Frederick?” She and the prince’s right-hand man had been on tense terms since her arrival in Ylisse. Arrival, or discovery? She had chalked it up to her appearance, or her dress - hate for Plegians ran strong and deep through the veins of the Ylissean people, doubly so for the military. Frederick had not lifted a suspicious eye from her in all their weeks of traveling together. “What could he want with me?”

Chrom shrugs. “Supplies from Ylisstol, I believe. He probably wants you to distribute them.”

Robin sighs. “More work. Of course. Perhaps if he valued my skill as a tactician more, he wouldn’t have me doling out pauldrons half the damn day.”

Chrom walks past her, clapping her on the shoulder as he passes. “And perhaps he’s right to treat you with suspicion. It wouldn’t do for a betrayal here, would it?”

“And you, milord?” Robin frowns. “Do you trust me?”

Chrom’s footsteps stop, though he faces away from her. He stares up the ridge, through the pine trees and the snow. His silence, his hesitation, is enough of an answer.

Robin stalks through the camp, frustration plain on her face. She wrings the hems of her sleeves angrily - it’s a nervous habit, one that she realized she must have picked up some time ago, but only noticed when the threads began to fray. The Exalt had offered to help fix up the worn sleeves.

So lost in thought is she that she nearly bowls into Frederick as she passes the infirmary tent. She clips his shoulder and spins, and for a second Frederick’s hand drops to the sword at his hip. Robin responds in kind, her hands scrabbling at her belt for a tome she knows isn’t there.

Upon seeing her mistake, she relaxes. “Oh, hello, Sir Frederick. I apologize, I wasn’t paying attention.”

He nods, though she notices his hand doesn’t stray from the pommel of his sword. “Think nothing of it.”

“Lord Chrom told me you sought me?” Robin pronounces the words carefully, doing her best to obscure her accent. She had practiced in the preceding years - her clothes and appearance could be altered, but a voice was a giveaway. She was treated more kindly without the accent, without the slight bending of her  _ r _ ’s and the lilt in her vowels.

“Supplies from the Exalt,” Frederick responds, in his characteristically stiff tones. “I would like the new armor passed out before supper.”

Robin gawked, her gaze flitting from Frederick to the darkening sky. “Sir, that can be no longer than two hours away. You’d have me-”

“Eat late, then,” Frederick says simply. He reaches into his gear pack and shuffles around. “Ah, yes. A letter for you.”

Robin’s heart stops.

She knows no one - she has no friends, no family - no family, save  _ him _ . She feels blood roar in her ears, and the second that spans Frederick withdrawing the letter and passing it to her seems to last a lifetime. Snow is frozen in the air between them and she can’t help but lapse into memory of dark eyes and harsh hands bearing down on her. She reaches out to take the envelope.

The crisp, clean parchment is embossed with gold and stamped with a red wax seal, and she feels relief seep into her chest like the sun through clouds. She smiles, hoping her inner turmoil remains obscured. “Thank you, Sir Frederick. I’ll get to the armor right away.”

“See that you do,” he nods, before ducking through the flaps of the infirmary tent.

Robin stumbles towards her tent in a daze, her fingers gently tracing each seam of parchment, each ridge of embossed leaf. The wax seal bears the brand of Naga - the mark of the royal family of Ylisse. It could only be from one person.

In the dark, by candlelight, in the safety of her tent, in the privacy of glowing orange light and by the soft patter of snowfall on canvas, she peels back the folded paper, breaking the seal with a muted crack. Red wax crumbles to her lap and she lips the paper with reverence. She smiles upon recognizing the flowing, scripted font. The Exalt had fulfilled her promise, it seemed - it was a formal letter, friendly enough, wishing Robin well. The Exalt asked after her health, and prayed that the winter snows would not treat her too harshly. She had included in the shipment from Ylisstol a pair of thick wool socks, a pair of fingerless leather gloves, and a dark double-knit cloth cuirass, with words of gentle teasing -  _ I can but assume you are dressed improperly for the cold, and I daresay my brother is no good influence there. _

Robin smiles, tracing the lines with her finger. The Exalt prays that negotiations will go favorably and quickly, and hopes that this mission will alleviate some of the tensions in camp - negotiations were not Chrom’s strong suit, so having a sharp mind would do him good, and would perhaps go far in earning the Shepherds’ trust. Robin laughs aloud at the Exalt’s soft tease. For her calm demeanor, her sense of humor never failed to get Robin to smile.

She folds the letter up and tucks it back into its envelope before opening the chest of her personal items and tucking it between the pages of a weathered tome. She withdraws her own parchment, and an inkwell and pen, and lays on the floor of her tent, kept awake by the scratching of ink against paper.


	2. Chapter 2

_ Dearest Emmeryn, _

_ I thank you dearly for your kind gift and your kinder words. The gods know if this snow will ever let up, and perhaps my choice of attire was not the most appropriate one, but in my defense I have seldom traveled farther north than the Northroad. Would I have known I had cause to pack more wool, I would have perhaps paid a visit to the shops in Ylisstol before departing. Perhaps upon my return you can see to it that I am better outfitted for our next excursion. _

_ I do hope you are well, and I hope all goes smoothly in Ylisstol. I understand that one of Lord Chrom’s understudies - a mage, I was told - is in the castle. Sir Vaike made a joke that with his protection, you’d surely be kept safe. From the round of laughs, I can but assume he was being callous, but I know the castle is far safer than the Feroxi woods. It is far warmer, at any rate, and a warm dinner by your side would be worth more than a thousand meals of cold saltpork and stale hardtack taken in solitude. _

_ Your brother has not been too harsh with me, though some of his entourage has been less than kind. Sir Frederick still does not trust me, and if the seal of this letter is broken upon its arrival I would wager that he has checked its contents to ensure I am not conferring some dark hex upon you with my pen. The others have warmed up to me somewhat, and Sir Sully has taken to sparring with me - she certainly can give me a workout, but I think my sword form is finally improving. She says no diplomacy is better than steel in your hands, and from the behavior of the Feroxi soldiers I’m inclined to agree. Lady Sumia, too, has taken a liking to me. She shares her books with me so that I ‘may practice my reading’ - I have told her I speak and read fluently, but alas. She has a kind heart, and asks of the fairytales and stories from my homeland. _

_ That said, I do think that it’s time I be entirely honest with you. Not that anything I have shared has been a fabrication, but if you are to defend me from the harshness of your people, it is only right that you understand the nature of that which you are defending. In Ylisstol I could not share my story - or would not. Wandering eyes, eavesdropping ears, suspicious glares - all kept me from being open, and for that I am truly sorry. But I would hope that there would be no secrets between us, and here by candlelight I find myself with the courage to share my story. _

_ I was not born Robin. I was born Reflet, a name which bears the same meaning as my own, but in the Plegian tongue. I was born to a man named Validar and a woman I never knew. Whether she died in childbirth, I was taken from her, or she died sometime before I became aware is something I could not say. But my father I do remember - I remember his stern eyes, and his harsh tongue. He was a member of the Grimleal, those accursed zealots whose churches were burned by the Ylissean crusaders, whose priests were strung up by the roadside, whose brand marked them for death at the hands of Ylisse’s blades. The First War did not stamp out the Grimleal, but only drove them further underground. We lived in secret, in temples deep in the desert, in colonies carved into the brown sandstone. Persecution drove subjects to my father’s flock, and he became powerful - a power to rival even the Mad King himself. _

_ But Validar bade his time. The Grimleal are a hardy people, devout and self-sacrificing, all laboring together in pursuit of a common goal. From the time I first became aware of myself and my surroundings, I remember being praised as a godchild - a vessel whose purpose would one day be fulfilled. In practice, this seemed to amount to nothing but cruelty. I was to be shaped into the perfect vessel, not born one, it seemed, else why would they be so harsh? Under cruel tutelage I learned the Plegian tongue, I learned the words of the Grimleal. Even now, their holy chants echo in my skull at night, accompanied by the sting of pain long since passed - scars that ache even if the blades and whips are gone. _

_ At the age of twelve the Grimleal took me from my father - or he passed me to them, I am still unsure which. I was brought to the temple as a living altar to the Fell Dragon, a vessel for and of purification. Could I count how much blood I spilt, it would no doubt be enough to fill this inkwell a thousandfold. _

_ There were other children like me, other promised vessels, other Grimleal whose brands were applied by force, not by faith. I remember very few of them now, but I remember another girl. _

_ Aversa was her name. She was older than me but just so, and she and I shared a room in the temple’s living quarters. Like me, she had been taken from her home, though she could never remember exactly what that home had been. She was my first - and perhaps only - friend in Plegia. She and I endured together, and under the cruel yoke of the Grimleal clergy, we toiled and we planned our escape. We pined for the day where we could be free, where we could escape into the desert and live in the light of the sun together. _

_ That day did not come. On the eve of my sixteenth birthday, she and I sat huddled by candlelight in a shadowed corner of the temple, waiting for our chance to leap from the window and to cross the clay-shingled rooftops under cover of night. We offered a prayer not to the Fell Dragon, but to Naga - if she existed, if she held power in this world, she would save us from this hellish prison. _

_ We were spotted climbing down the cliffs. Guards mobilized, scaled wyverns with dark red eyes and men with swords and foul tomes in pursuit of us. She took my hand and we ran off into the dunes together. _

_ We did not make it. In the first village we reached, guards had been posted at water sources. We were caught trying to fill stolen flasks, and Aversa was taken from me. Were it not for her sacrifice, I would have been caught, clasped in irons, and sent back to my father. Even now, in the dark of the night, I can hear her cries, her pleas echoing after me as I ran as fast as I could into the desert - a plea for me to be free, to live a life for the both of us.. _

_ I reached Ylisse on the ninth day. Starving, tired, and thirsty, I limped across the border, hauled myself across a fence, and collapsed in the dirt, utterly spent. _

_ I scrubbed myself clean in a mountain creek. I took a Ylissean name, I learned the Ylissean tongue, and I covered my brand with gloves and long sleeves. Ylisse was not a kind place to me, young as I was, but it was not Plegia. It was not my father. I was free, and spent my years in peace, or as close to it as I had ever known. I whiled away the time learning, traveling, and trying to make sense of it all. In my travels I happened upon your brother. Or rather, he happened upon me, resting in a meadow. The rest, I believe, you know. _

_ I pray that I can have your secrecy and your confidence in these matters. If you wish to cease our correspondence, I understand. Truly, I do. I wish not to mislead you like the foul sorceress your brother’s men believe me to be. I wish only for the truth between us, and this is my truth. _

Robin stares at the words scratched into the parchment, trying to think of how to conclude her story. What conclusion is there to be drawn? That she is what Sir Frederick claims? She is Grimleal, and agent of Plegian chaos?

She stares at the brand burned into the back of her hand, behind the fingers which curl around her pen. And the fingers drop the pen and clench, crushing the paper into a ball. She shakes her head, crumpling up the paper and tossing it to the side to join so many others. She draws another sheet of parchment, dips her pen in her inkwell, and begins again.


	3. Chapter 3

Robin had never been to a city quite like Ylisstol. Plegian cities are different - they are low, carved into rock or sand, clustered around oases in the desert. Their buildings are unadorned sandstone, stretching out for miles, clustered slums of rough-hewn homes and businesses, seldom reaching higher than two or three stories. The largest structures in Plegia were the temples, great pyramids of carved stone stretching up to the sky. That is not to say Plegia had no life - it was life unlike any other country on the continent, with bazaars that were filled to bursting with life and color, and cold desert nights lit with the warmth of lanterns and filled with the scents of meat basted in herbs and spices, and dark bitter liquors, and the hazy tobacco smoke drifting in grey curls from corner taverns.

Ylisse is not like Plegia. Weeks on the road had been draining, and Robin wanted nothing more than to find a tavern to sink into, a place of respite and quiet where she could make sense of everything that had happened - the Shepherds, this Lord Chrom and his retinue, the Risen attack…her head was spinning even as she emerged from the pine forests into the broad main road that carved its path through the heart of the Ylissean capital.

Chrom claps her on the shoulder, startling her fearful gaze.

“Something the matter?”

“I’ve never had cause to journey to the capital,” Robin hastily explains, shaking her head. “It’s…impressive.” The word she finds doesn’t quite capture her thoughts, but her head still whirls as Chrom nudges her forward and they join the company of troops venturing past the portcullis and into the town proper. Robin tugs her hood closer around her face, hoping to obscure her stark white hair and dark skin, hoping to avoid just the sort of attention that made her fear the cities when she was alone.

“It appears the capital was spared the chaos we encountered, thank the gods,” Frederick says sternly, astride his armored horse. Robin keeps her tome clutched to her chest and lifts her gaze towards him.

A murmur ripples through the crowd, whispers of the Exalt coming down from the castle to greet the victorious band of soldiers.

“The Exalt is your ruler, yes?” she asks.

Frederick nods. “Yes. Lady Emmeryn is her name, and you will refer to her as such. You will speak to her only if addressed.”

The crowd parts before them and they see her.

She sees her.

Exalt Emmeryn stands on the castle parapets, before a contingent of guards clad in the blue and silver of Ylisse. Their banners flap in the breeze, and the sun sparkles off silver armor and gilded sheathes and spears, but Robin’s attention is fixated on the woman before her. Emmeryn, like an angel resplendent in her glory, her golden hair falling in curling tresses to her shoulder, her crown glinting in the morning sun. She smiles as they approach, her eyes kind and welcoming.

Robin stares up at her the way a starving mouse might gaze at a table adorned with a feast, looking up with the hope and fear of seeing something truly wonderful, truly foreign. Robin had known rulers, true, but Robin had known mayors whose mansions were funded with the coppers of the townspeople, and Robin had known governors whose power was derived from blood and terror. Emmeryn smiled with a grace and beauty Robin had perhaps never seen.

Emmeryn spied Robin staring up at her and she smiles again, curiously, before turning to the guard at her side and gesturing. Robin directs her gaze downwards towards the cobblestones and draws her hood tighter, her cheeks burning.

Robin listens to the introductions in a daze. Not two days before she had been sleeping in fields, her robes tucked around her like a ratty blanket, her tomes as pillows. And now she shakes hands with the commander of the Ylissean Falcon Knights, and she politely declines wine from castle servants, and she stares with glassy eyes at the Exalt speaking to Lord Chrom in familiar, friendly tones.

Robin hears her name.

“This is Robin. She fought bravely with us against the brigands, and as such I have decided to make her a Shepherd. She has an unparalleled gift for strategy and we’ve been in need of a keen tactician’s mind for some time.

Robin bows slightly, wishing she were allowed her hood up in the presence of the Exalt.

Emmeryn smiles broadly. “It sounds as if Ylisse owes you a debt of gratitude, Robin.”

“Not at all, milady,” Robin mumbles. Emmeryn moves to lift her hand to shake Robin’s, but Frederick cuts her off, stepping between the two women.

“Forgive me, your grace, but if I am permitted to speak…”

Emmeryn sighs. “Yes, Sir Frederick?”

“We found Robin on the roadside not half an hour before the brigand attack. Given her attire and her manner of speech, we cannot rule out the possibility that she is a brigand herself, or worse; a Plegian spy, perhaps.”

Emmeryn tilts her head curiously. “Yet you allowed her into the castle, and allowed her to come before me.”

“We made sure to disarm her, milady.” Frederick clears his throat and stands at attention.

Emmeryn turns to Robin. “I apologize for the behavior of my subordinates. You have risked your life for our people, and so you have earned my faith. We can get you set up in a room in the castle, and if you would like, I could show you the grounds while my brother and his men finish providing their report.”

Chrom scowls at this.

“But Emm!” comes a squeak of protest. Lissa steps forward. “Wh-”

“Hush, Lissa,” Chrom cuts her off, taking her hand.

“But your grace,” Frederick protests. To leave the Exalt at the mercy of this stranger, without guards or security…

“I will be fine, Sir Frederick.”

“I really must apologize for the behavior of my brother’s men,” Emmeryn says softly, leading Robin down the hall. Her boots tap against marble, echoing off the walls, and Robin darts her eyes to and fro, trying to soak in as much detail as she can. Ornamental armor lines the walls, heavy oak doors give way to studies crammed with books and lined with plush carpets, and broad plate windows look out on the city spread out below them. Robin pauses at one window to gaze out at the city illuminated in the glow of sunset. She can see the clustered buildings reaching out to the city walls, and then the forest and hills beyond.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Emmeryn stops too.

“It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen,” Robin confesses.

“It is for the sake of this city that my men are so wary,” Emmeryn sighs. “The last war with Plegia nearly destroyed us. I know that praying you bear us no ill will is a futile gesture, but I can only hope you believe me when I assure you that our people suffered just as yours did.”

Robin sees Emmeryn’s hand instinctively reach to the back of her neck. As Emmeryn rubs her neck Robin spies a hint of a jagged scar traced across it. She turns her gaze quickly back to the city, hoping Emmeryn didn’t notice her stare.

“As you say, your grace.”

Emmeryn smiles. “But enough of that talk. Come, I can show you the rest of the castle grounds. The courtyard gardens are lovely at this time of day, and it will give you a chance to stretch your legs before dinner. I imagine we have much to discuss.”

Robin and Emmeryn chat idly as they walk, discussing the trivialities of life - Robin talks of her studying of magic, and when Emmeryn pries Robin confesses that she has had no formal teacher - she has learned what she can from tomes and manuals, but she fears that her skill is truly lacking in comparison to the mages in the kingdom’s employ. Emmeryn describes her own dabbling in magic, and her desire to learn the healing magic that her younger sister has dedicated her life to.

Robin does not pry, but she senses something dark behind Emmeryn’s words. Some driving force beyond mere curiosity.

As predicted, dinner is a lengthy affair, giving Robin time to rest and fill up on the delicacies that wealth affords. She sips from a crystal glass of wine and takes polite bites at roast vegetables and juicy, tender meats that she can scarcely identify. She smiles politely, laughs at the antics of the youngest princess and the jokes of the prince, but all throughout dinner she finds her gaze settling on the Exalt. Something about her presence is as magnetic as it is calming. They sit at the table and talk, and when the plates are cleared away and dessert is brought forth, they continue to talk over coffee and cake, and the plates are cleared again and more wine is brought.

Chrom fears for the state of the nation - brigands run wild, this new Risen threat plagues the people, and the Plegian border is inescure. At this last, Robin sheepishly ducks into her wineglass.

But even with the glare of Chrom’s men burning into her violet cloak, Robin wishes the evening would drag on longer and longer. As the candles burn down to wicks and the windows darken into the blackness of night, she finds the table more and more empty. A decision has been made - Chrom is to take his men to Ferox to request aid. They are to leave within the week. But there are more details to be decided, and Robin sits patiently and nods as Frederick instructs her to take notes, to keep track of the Exalt’s words and her plan for diplomacy.

The table empties slowly - Lissa retires first, then Chrom, then the other men. Robin finds herself sitting catty-corner, caught in a triangle between Frederick and Emmeryn. Frederick’s eyelids seem heavy, but his suspicion does not let up.

“Perhaps it would be best if you retired for the night, Sir Frederick,” Emmeryn says at last. “It is late, and you are surely tired from your journey.”

Frederick nods and stands. “Your grace.” He nods to the Exalt. He stops himself from shooting one last glance at Robin before departing.

“In Ylisse is it customary for royalty to clean up their dinner parties?” Robin asks, watching Emmeryn tidying up the table and placing wineglasses delicately on a silver tray.

“What is customary is not my concern,” Emmeryn says, not looking up. She realizes what she said and looks up, offering a weak and apologetic smile. “I beg pardon. I am tired, and my tongue slipped.”

“Think nothing of it,” Robin says, getting to her feet to assist Emmeryn. They clean the table quickly, together. “I can take the tray to the kitchens, if you would show me the way,” Robin offers.

Emmeryn shakes her head. “I will send a servant.”

“And you?” Robin asks curiously. “I’ve heard tales of her strength, but the Exalt does sleep, yes?”

Emmeryn laughs. “Yes, she does. Perhaps the royal tactician aught retire to her quarters as well. Come, I’ll show you to your room.”

Robin has never met royalty quite like Emmeryn - she is kind, soft-spoken, and trusting, and above all, she seems no different in demeanor than a servant. Chrom’s brash abrasiveness seems fitting of his station as a warrior prince, but to see Emmeryn bent over the table, scrubbing with a cloth, was a startling image. How far from home Robin truly felt, watching as this woman - the figurehead of a nation - walked her through the halls to her room.

“Ah, here we are,” Emmeryn smiles, gesturing. “I trust the accommodations are to your liking.”

Robin smiles politely. “Anything is better than a cot in the dirt, your grace.”

They stand in the hallway, but a pace apart, in the flickering lamplight. The Plegian gutter rat and the Ylissean angel. Robin tugs her cloak closer. “I suppose it’s goodnight, then.”

Emmeryn purses her lips.

Something hangs in the air between them like a spark, like a bolt of magic that makes Robin’s hair stand on end. She has scarcely known this woman for a day, yet she wishes the night would somehow last longer. She stands silent, waiting for the Exalt to speak.

“I…” Emmeryn chooses her words carefully, each phrase considered and calculated. “I think that you and I would have a great deal to learn from each other, Robin of Plegia. I understand that your duties will keep you far from the castle, but…” she purses her lips again. “Would you grant me the privilege of writing you?”

Robin’s blood freezes in her veins. Her brain short-circuits. “I…” she grasps at words but her brain latches onto Plegian syllables so she remains silent.

“I apologize,” Emmeryn bows her head. “Perhaps that was too forward of me. I understand if-”

“No!” Robin finally blurts out, her face scarlet. “I, I mean, your grace, I’m sorry, I…” She steels herself and takes a breath. “If…if you would…it would be my honor, your grace.”

“Wonderful,” Emmeryn smiles, and Robin feels that her heart could shift the foundations of the earth itself.


	4. Chapter 4

When Robin returns to Ylisse, she still has her bundle of letters tucked into the pages of her personal tome. She keeps the book close, and on lonely nights on the road she withdraws the pages of weathered parchment and skims the letters, tracing the swirl and curve of each scripted word with reverence.

To say that tensions are escalating perhaps might be a misstatement of terms. The Mad King had made his intentions clear - he means war, and war means troops, supplies, marches, strategy. War means Robin working around the clock, managing gear, outfitting troops, overseeing drills, and so seldom does she find herself with time to relax. Between working and training, she had almost forgotten that the nation gearing up for war against Ylisse was none other than her own.

The men made sure to not let her forget that fact. From muttered statements as she passed by to furtive glances in the hall, she knew that she was suspect to some degree. No matter her please, no matter what she did to prove herself, many of the soldiery refused to relax. Refused to treat her orders without suspicion or caution. And in the throes of her loneliness on the long march back to Ylisstol, she had little else but the words of the Exalt. Her kindness and humor, her concern and her righteous frustration.

And then the Exalt herself. The Mad King had taken a Ylissean woman, a cleric by the name of Maribelle, and Chrom retaliated, and before Robin could truly get her bearings war was upon them. They retreated, their foray into Plegia halted before it began in order to seek out more supplies, more aid. They were no longer a band of soldiers, patrolling for nuisances. They were a war party.

Robin stands in the royal armor, poring over bundles of iron swords, checking quivers of arrows. She works by lamplight, her small oil lantern resting on some of the scarce table space not occupied by parchment maps and hastily scribbled figures. She pauses to rest on her hands, leaning over a silver-trimmed shield. She pauses her work to trace out the hammered metal, delicately drawing one dark finger over the lines. The shield bears the symbol of Naga; a great silver dragon, wreathed in delicately chiseled flowers. It’s a beautiful shield, elegant. She presses her finger into a dented divot.

All the beauty in the world did not stop its owner from falling to a Plegian blade. She sighs.

“Still working?” a soft voice startles her. She looks up, trying to rub the weariness from her eyes.

“Milord requested that I finish inventory before we head out. He requested enough supplies for us to reach the Longfort to request reinforcements.”

“And do you march tomorrow?”

“I couldn’t say, your grace.”

“A pity,” Emmeryn murmurs, resting her hand on a piece of parchment wreathed around a bundle of iron lances. She looks up. “Seems to me that the tactician should know when the troops will be moving.”

Robin cracks a wry half-smile. “So you say, your grace. But, permit me to speak-”

“Of course,” Emmeryn interrupts. “Anything.”

“It seems that the Lord Prince himself is…what is the Ylissean expression? Flying by the seat of his pants?”

At this Emmeryn laughs, and her voice sounds like music to Robin. “Yes, I suppose that’s true for all of us.” She takes a step closer, examining Robin’s work. She stands a head taller than the tactician, even more so with her tiara, and Robin can smell the fragrance of her robes. She smells like jasmine and something sweet, and Robin is dimly aware that she hasn’t bathed in a good three days. Life on the road is hard, and she tugs her robe closer as if to contain the scent of charred paper and sweat on her skin. Emmeryn looks over her work carefully and tentatively prods Robin’s hastily scribbled parchment.

“Plegian?”

Robin nods. “I write faster in my native tongue, your grace.”

“No less eloquently, I hope.”

Robin’s heart sinks. They had been back in Ylisstol, and they hadn’t a spare moment to talk. About anything, least of all the letters. Robin’s tome feels heavy on her belt. She forces a smile. “It’s just figures, your grace. Hardly worthy of your attention.”

“And you?”

Robin frowns. Perhaps the Exalt’s wordplay was too much for her, so Emmeryn laughs again. “Here, let me aid you. Many hands, they say.”

“Oh, no, your grace,” Robin shakes her off. “I couldn’t possibly-”

“Where should these go?” Emmeryn lifts a sheaf of spears.

Robin parts her lips as if to protest, then thinks better of it. “There, in the corner. Anywhere out of the way of what I have left to count.” She watches Emmeryn go. “T-thank you,” she murmurs softly.

They work in silence, the only sound the soft, muted rattle of wrapped iron against tile, toiling into the dark hours of the night. Robin isn’t sure when, but Emmeryn slips.

She takes a step and drops a crate of glass vials to the ground with a loud clatter, the subsequent shattering loud enough to echo through the storeroom and bounce off the stone walls of the hallway. It startles them both and Robin leaps to her side to attend. In that split second, that moment between noise and recovery, she sees something in Emmeryn’s eyes. Exhaustion, fatigue. Something that led to this, and now the tile at her feet is chipped and broken and scattered with glass.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says hastily.

“No worries,” Robin kneels before her and begins collecting pieces. “Your grace, perhaps it would be best if you slept.” She realizes her words. “If, if it pleases you.”

Emmeryn kneels, too, and helps Robin collect the shards. “It wouldn’t do for you to cut yourself on the fragments of my mistake,” she says into the tile. “Let me help.”

Robin sits up, reaching for a bin to dispose of her broken glass. “Please, milady. Rest. I can take care of this.”

Emmeryn ignores her plea, her eyes fixed on the task at hand. Robin sighs. She sees behavior not wholly unfamiliar - the way in which she shuts out all but her task, ignoring her fatigue, focusing on the two-foot-square before her rather than the miles of blood beyond. Robin slides the bin to her. “T-thank you, your grace.”

“Think nothing of it,” Emmeryn smiles.

She bends to the tile and works again, and in the soft golden tresses of her hair Robin can see it again. A jagged white scar tracked across the back of her neck. She almost reaches out to touch it, to brush aside her hair and press her fingers into the scar. She had one not dissimilar - a white line across one shoulder and up the side of her neck. She opens her mouth, almost daring to speak, but her thoughts are cut short.

“Ah!” Emmeryn hisses, and Robin sees her hands are full of blood.

She curses under her breath and reacts without thinking, grasping Emmeryn’s hand with one hand and a free strip of parchment with the other. She wipes Emmeryn’s hand and sets to work tying it with a strip of cloth. Halfway through the motion she realizes what she’s doing.

“Oh!” she mutters, letting go and backing away. “I apologize, that was…instinct, your grace. Come, let’s find a healer.”

Emmeryn tilts her head and looks at her half-bandaged hand. “Your first aid is as good as any, I would say.” She offers the hand to Robin. “The least you could do is finish wrapping it.”

“Ah…” Robin winces. “Of course, your grace.”

“I thought I told you not to call me that,” Emmeryn smiles.

“And what would her grace prefer?” Robin tightens her makeshift bandage.

“Just Emmeryn is fine.”

“As you say, your grace.”

Emmeryn laughs at that, and takes Robin’s hand in her own. “Come, Robin. Would you not think us friends? After our correspondences?”

“Two months of writing is poor substitute for friendship,” Robin remarks, hoping her blush doesn’t show in the torchlight. She withdraws. “You seem awful cavalier for a woman whose hand is bleeding.”

Emmeryn gets to her feet and offers her free hand to Robin. “I must admit I’m not unused to such wounds.” She smiles. “It’s your instinct to provide first aid? A practicing cleric, are you?”

Robin shakes her head. “No, just…” She purses her lips. “We had to take care of ourselves. Left to your own devices, you…form habits.”

“You and Aversa.”

Robin nods and pats a table. “Here, sit. I can do a proper job if it in the lamplight.”

Emmeryn obeys, offering her hand for Robin’s examination. She laughs softly. “Ironic, isn’t it? I’m studying medicine myself, yet I don’t know the first thing about healing my own wounds.”

“Well, I confess I am no substitute for a good healer,” Robin takes her hand. “But I will do my best.”

Emmeryn’s hand feels soft in Robin’s own, her callused fingers softly pressing into the wrapped flesh. Her fingers are long and tense, and Robin makes a point of ignoring Emmeryn’s eyes boring into her like starlight drills.

Robin looks up to speak. They’re close, so very close. The Exalt, sitting on the table in the lamplight, one bloody hand clasped in the claws of a ragged Plegian tactician. Robin can feel her breath on her cheek and she parts her lips to protest. “Your grace,” she breathes into the soft tug of Emmeryn’s hand.

Emmeryn’s eyes, half-lidded and soft, meet Robin’s. She parts her lips slightly and Robin’s heart thrums in her chest like the beating of some great war-drum. Emmeryn leans forward, ever so slightly, a flower drifting in a breeze, and she closes her eyes. Robin presses her cheek against Emmeryn’s, unwilling to go farther, her breath hushed and and sharp. “Your grace,” she mutters again.

“I told you not to call me that.” Emmeryn’s voice in Robin’s ear sends goosebumps up her spine and she fights down a shiver. Her lips brush against Robin’s cheek, barely a kiss, though her hot breath fills Robin’s veins with crackling energy. She can feel Emmeryn’s hand tighten and she can feel her lips shifting ever so slightly, and their lips are just so close, and Robin’s world is Emmeryn’s perfume and the scene of burning candlewick and old parchment and dented iron and the softness of the flesh of her hand and the feather-light touch of her lips, and Robin closes her eyes and-

The door slams open and Robin leaps a foot back, her heart doing its best to leap from her body and hurl itself out a window. She staggers back in a daze and knocks into a rack of shields, sending them to the floor with a clatter. Emmeryn is only somewhat more graceful, sliding from the table on uncertain feet and turning towards the door.

“Sir Frederick? What’s the matter?”

He dashes towards her, sword drawn, and presses an outstretched arm into Robin’s chest, knocking her back.

“Milady, are you alright?” he says, taking her bloodied hand. He whips around to place himself between the Exalt and the tactician. He holds his sword forth in a stance of warning.

“I’m _fine,_ Sir Frederick,” Emmeryn says, touching his shoulder and pulling him back. “It’s just a flesh wound.”

“No doubt her handiwork,” he snaps, glaring at Robin, crumpled back against a table.

“She was just helping me tend to it,” Emmeryn says, trying to maintain her gentle tone, though her frustration bleeds through. “Please, Sir Frederick. What’s the matter?”

“There’s been rumors of spies,” he says, his face a mask of stone. “Assassins, even. Plegian agents here to avenge their Mad King’s mistreatment. Lord Chrom wished that I would personally guard you until the matter is resolved.”

“What?” Emmeryn sits up. “Where is my brother now?”

“In the courtyard. He asked that his tactician join him,” he shoots a glare at Robin. “She’ll not go unescorted, not at a time like this, though. Come on, on your feet.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Milord,” Robin says, straightening her askew cloak and brushing her white bangs from her eyes. “I was told to report to you.”

Chrom turns slowly, his hand resting on his sword. The long night seems to be wearing on them all. Even in the relative peace of the courtyard, among the leaves rustles by wind, he seems tense. “Ah. Robin.” A greeting that is like hardtack - sufficient but flavorless.

“How fares my sister?”

“The Exalt is safe in Sir Frederick’s keeping,” Robin nods slightly.

“Good,” Chrom says, relief visible on his face. “Good.”

Robin frowns. “Milord, if I make speak.”

Chrom nods, weary of her stiffness. “Robin, please. My attendants may not trust you, but…” He frowned. “Speak your mind. Your insight has not led us astray.”

“You seem distracted, Chrom.” Robin takes a gamble on the informal phrasing and she winces as soon as the words pass her lips. She had no right to address him as such - he is the prince of a nation, and her employer to boot. She hastily apologizes. “I-I’m sorry, I-”

“No,” Chrom shrugs, sitting on a stone bench along the courtyard path. “No, you’re right. I have been dueling some unpleasant thoughts for some time, and the whispers of assassins does little to calm my nerves.”

“Is it something you wish to discuss?”

Chrom opens his mouth to respond, then closes it again. He goes through this process several times, clearly and obviously going back and forth on whether or not to speak, and Robin wants to grasp him by the shoulders and shake him until the words come tumbling out.

Her relationship with Chrom could be characterized as professional at best - maybe one day they could be friends, but that day was pushed off by every incursion of Plegian soldiers, every clash of forces. Robin had proven her skill, but not her loyalty, and she knew it. Frederick openly distrusted her, and for all his pretense, Chrom still forbade Lissa from spending time with her unaccompanied. The memory was too fresh, for the both of them. Chrom must have known at least a little of the horrors his father perpetrated upon the Plegian people.

And the memory lingered in Robin like the smell of blood on a dusty desert road. She closes her eyes and dares to speak again. “Please, sir. If I am to be your aide, I would-”

“How much do you know?” he lifted his head, cutting her off.

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard what the Mad King said. About my father, and the last war. Do you know?”

Robin frowns and finally sits at his side. She rests her hands in her lap. “As much as anyone, milord. I saw the atrocities firsthand; I saw my kin slaughtered indiscriminately, and I saw villages burnt to the ground.” She tries offering a weak smile of reassurance. “But I hold no love for my country, sir. I left it long ago.”

Chrom sighs and rests his face in his hands. “I truly am sorry. I cannot amend the actions of my father, nor can I bring back the Plegian dead. But…our people suffered as well. The war pushed us to the brink of starvation and ruin. Farmers who could barely lift a pitchfork, from age or from youth, were conscripted into the army and sent to their deaths.” He lifts his head. “There’s just no sense in it, Robin. We ran out of food.” He laughs harshly. “On Emmeryn’s ninth birthday, Lissa and I tried to make her a cake, but all we had was flour and water.” His mouth softens into something like a wistful frown. “They were dark times, Robin. And that was the mantle our father left my sister. Our people’s anger, Plegia’s thirst for revenge.”

Robin nods silently, allowing Chrom his speech.

“Everyone blamed my sister. Can you imagine? Not ten years old and already a target for abuse from the people. She would go out in public and the people would hurl stones at her.” He taps the back of his neck. “I’m sure you’ve seen the scar. A Ylissean farmer hurled a chipped sickle at her.” He laughs again and shakes his head. “I broke his arm for that. What a messy day.”

“I can’t imagine,” Robin murmured, lost in her own thoughts. She had known Ylisse had suffered. The war had long since ended by the time she limped across the border, but the animosity between their people remained - so the Ylissean desperation and anger had affected her as well. She rubs her knee through her cloak, grateful the cloth obscures her own scar.

“I cannot claim to know how she does it, Robin. Even despite it all, the decade of pain and hatred, she…she wants nothing more than to heal the rift between our nations. Even as the people mocked her, she healed them, she reached out to them.” He purses his lips and frowns. “Even Plegians.”

“Like me.”

Chrom sighs and nods. “I love my sister dearly, Robin. She is the most important person in the halidom, not just for her own grace and kindness, but for what she represents to the people.” His gaze darkens. “And I will not let that be taken from us.”

“Milord?”

He turns to her, his eyes surprisingly dark. “Robin, you are our tactician. You guide our troops, and you do so with great success. But if you…” he falters. “If…” He curls his fists around his knees. “I do not trust you, Robin. My sister does, because she must trust you. But if something befalls her, yours will be the first head to roll.”

Robin’s blood runs cold. She’s suddenly so aware of the brand of Naga pressed into the shoulder facing her, and her own mark covered by Emmeryn’s gifted gloves. She tugs her cloak closer. “I…I understand, sir.”

“Emmeryn must trust you. She must be the beacon of peace and healing our nation needs. But if there is to be a war, we need warriors. We need someone willing to do what she must not.”

“Well said, sir.”

Robin and Chrom look up simultaneously at the slender figure before them. Robin springs to her feet, already groping for her tome.

Chrom’s eyes light with recognition. “Marth!”

It is only through the foresight of their mysterious visitor that Emmeryn is not caught before the castle guards scramble to their defense. Assassins spill into the courtyard and the motley trio react with vicious fervor, steel crashing against steel and Robin flinging bolts of lightning through the quiet nighttime air. Marth steps forward first, deflecting the blow of an assassin and barking out a harsh, curt command.

“The Exalt!”

Robin’s boots move before her brain can command them to. She dashes across the courtyard and practically dives through a door, careering off hallways as she springs for the Exalt’s quarters. As she runs, her legs burning and her mind racing, a single thought dominates her mind, a lie repeated again and again, an affirmation of her selfish cause. _This is not for Emmeryn. This is not for Emmeryn. Our fates are linked. I cannot allow her to fall._ Fear creeps into her veins and she tries to push down her rising nausea. As she runs she passes guards locked in combat already - the Plegian ambush had been prepared ahead of time. Robin nearly slides on a pool of blood on the tile and careens into Lissa.

“Lissa!” she cries, grasping the young princess’ shoulders. “Where is Emmeryn?”

“Emm?!” Lissa shouts, panic in her voice. “I don’t know!”

“Where’s Frederick?”

Before Lissa can respond the knight rounds a corner, the Exalt in tow. He draws a blade and leaps towards Robin. “Unhand the princess!”

Lissa whirls, placing herself in between the two. “Freddy, stop it! Robin was trying to help!”

“She cannot be trusted,” Frederick growls, pushing the girl aside.

“Sir Frederick,” Emmeryn says sternly. “Please, take Lissa and flee while you have time! Keep her safe.”

“B-but-”

“Please, Sir Frederick.”

Frederick frowns and sheathes his sword. “As you will it, your grace.” He grasps Lissa’s wrist and tugs.

Chrom arrives on the scene not a moment later, huffing and puffing. Robin grasps his shoulder. “Where’s Marth?”

“I…I don’t know,” Chrom admits, resting on his knees. “S-she was…looking for someone.”

The three of them stand together in the hallway, surrounded on all sides by the muted sounds of distant fighting. Fire, and, and steel, and distant cries. Then a roar of magic, and the row of windows shatter inwards, showering them with glass. Robin leaps instinctively, diving in front of Emmeryn and taking her to the ground, bearing the brunt of the attack.

“What was THAT?” Chrom, covering his head with his hands.

“Dark Magic,” Robin growls, pushing herself to her feet and brushing the shards of glass from her cloak. “A Plegian specialty. Milady, are you hurt?” She offers a hand to the Exalt.

“No, thank you, Robin,” Emmeryn takes her offer.

Chrom moves to step between them, pushing Robin aside. “Emm, we need to get you out of here.”

“No,” Emmeryn shakes her head. “I will stay. Robin needs a healer.”

Robin shakes her head, trying to ignore the blood oozing from a dozen small cuts. “No, your grace. I’m fine.”

A voice echoes through the shattered windows.

“I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE, LITTLE PRINCELING!”

Robin’s heart stops. For a single instant she can feel nothing but the cuts in her back and the weight of her robes on her slender shoulders, and she sees the torchlight sparkling in the shower of broken glass, and the voice knocks her breath from her lungs.

Chrom pushes past her dazed form to the window and scowls. “Validar!” he snarls.

“Validar?” Emmeryn asks.

“The Grimleal zealot himself,” Chrom leans against the side of the window, poking out his head to get a look into the courtyard below. “No doubt the source of that dark magic blast, too.”

Robin still can’t stop her hands from shaking. She’s frozen stock still in the middle of the hallway, wishing she could lift her leaden boots.

Chrom looks out the window again before ducking back as an arrow clatters against the stone. “Marth is down there. Robin, we need to move! Emmeryn, find somewhere safe to hide!”

Robin nods numbly, and her footsteps to follow him feel like they are through molasses. Before she can follow the prince, a gentle hand touches her own.

Emmeryn smiles at her and speaks softly, murmuring in her ear. “Be brave, my bird. He is not your father. Remember that.” She presses a chaste kiss into Robin’s cheek.

Robin swallows and nods, wishing she could dislodge the lump in her throat and manage anything - a weak thank you, a good luck, a beg for forgiveness, an I love you, anything! Anything but the silence between them. She takes Emmeryn’s hand and squeezes it lightly.

And then she is gone, back down the hallways after the wayward prince, her cloak fluttering behind her, the pages of her tome rippling as she searches frantically for the right spells. She rounds a corner and takes the stairs down two at a time before careening out the door into the courtyard. Chrom and Marth and locked in combat with Validar’s guard, and the Grimleal himself is casting bolts of dark purple light into any Ylissean guard that dare approach him.

Marth slices her blade through a thief’s abdomen in a spray of red.

Robin stumbles down the steps into the grass and fires a blast of wind, knocking back an axe-wielder about to bring his blade crashing into Marth’s back.

“T-thanks,” Marth mutters, wiping her sword on her tunic.

Robin lifts her eyes and in that instant, she see him. And he sees her. And he smiles that wicked, toothy smile, and she feels her gut twist with all the pain of a plunged knife. She wraps a trembling hand around her tome and steels her gaze.

“Ho ho!” Validar laughs. “Can it be?! After years of searching…Tonight, fate truly piles gifts at my feet! I felt our connection grow, but I didn’t realize how close you truly were!”

Emmeryn’s words echo in Robin’s head. _He is not your father._ She growls and presses her fingers into the pages of her tome. The words echo in her brain, muted as she cries out _Ruin!_

Validar whirls in a flash of black smoke and deftly dodges the blast. He laughs again and Robin’s skin crawls. “Well, well…I know you, don’t I?” He grins. “Submit to me, and I will spare you the dishonor of death here.”

Chrom leaps in front of Robin and blocks a bold of magic with Falchion, sending it ricocheting across the courtyard. “Robin, are you insane?!” he cries, grasping her shoulder. “You need to fight!”

“Ohoho!” Validar cackles. “So has my child not told you the truth?”

“Your…child?” Marth lowers her blade. “What?”

“We already know the truth,” Chrom makes a wall with the other swordsman. “She was Grimleal, but no more. She owes no allegiance to you.”

Validar lowers his tome. “Is that so, my child?”

Robin stumbles between Marth and Chrom, grasping for her tome. Without speaking another word she sends a blast of magic towards Validar, who growls and lifts a hand.

A blast of pain strikes Robin’s head - whether it was a magical attack or not she isn’t sure, but she stumbles back, trips on a body, and sprawls weakly in the grass. She clutches at her head, crying out.

“Why else would we know the right ways into your little play castle?” Validar snarls, taking a step forward, holding his hand aloft. “It’s such a simple matter to just… _pick_ her brain.” He twitches his fingers and Robin writhes, crying out.

“ _N-No_ !” she cries, unable to stop the words from coming out in Plegian. “ _Stop it!_ ” It couldn’t be true - if he had been searching for her...had she been an unwilling agent of the Grimleal all along? “ _F-father…”_ she groans, the Plegian word sour on her lips.

“Beg!” snarls Validar. “Beg forgiveness for what you’ve done!”

“Enough of this!” Marth growls, her voice guttural and angry. She lunges forward, slashing Falchion in an arc. Her blade clips Validar’s shoulder and he stumbles, crying out in surprise. Marth leaps forwards again, following up immediately, thrusting her sword between his robes. He cries out.

Black smoke, not blood, pours from his torn cloak. He howls in pain or anger, writhing and stumbling backwards into the night, and his tome flutters to the grass. “N-no!” he cries out. “This is…all wrong! You couldn’t have known…the plan…”

Marth lunges again, and with a mighty swing slashes across his chest. A burst of violet light and black smoke pours forth and he howls again, dissolving into the blackness of the night.

Robin, crumpled on the ground, her arms wrapped around her head, whimpers into the dirt. Marth kneels at her side.

“Robin, are you alright? What’s wrong?”

“Get away from her!” snaps Chrom, grasping Marth’s shoulder and pulling her to her feet. He points Falchion’s tip at Robin’s prone form.

“What are you doing?” snaps Marth. “Look at her, she can’t even stand!”

“That makes my job easier,” Chrom frowns, reaching down and roughly tugging Robin to her feet. “Come. You can stay in the dungeons while we decide what we’re going to do with you.”

 

 

“A traitor?” Robin looks up, lifting her head from the stone wall. “I…what?” She rubs her temples. Her head still feels fuzzy. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, one you never really get used to - sharing your headspace with another presence. She blinks in the half-light.

“The only reason you are not standing trial to be hanged is that the Exalt herself is vouching for your innocence.”

“Because I _am_ innocent!” Robin cries, climbing to her feet and flinging herself at the cell bars. “I didn’t know about the attack, I swear!”

Frederick frowns and flicks a piece of tattered parchment between the bars. Robin drops to her knees and snatches it up.

“Where did you get this?” she snaps angrily, her headache doing little to quell her rage. “Where did you get this?!”

“It was found among the Exalt’s things as we are preparing to move her for safekeeping. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“This was a private letter.”

“A private letter disclosing your connection to the nation at which we are currently at war? A letter that reveals that your very own father led an attack that left forty soldiers dead, and nearly the Exalt herself?!” Frederick roars, slamming against the bars. “I’ve had enough of your trickery, witch. The only reason you aren’t dead where you stand is because the Exalt has faith in you, and I have not the heart to tell her how wayward that faith is.”

Robin grits her teeth.

Frederick slides a key into the cell’s lock. “At any rate, we’re marching. The Exalt will be kept here in the castle for safekeeping, and you are forbidden from contact. You are not to see her, you are not to speak to her,” he snatches the letter from Robin’s hand and tears it neatly in half. “And you are not to write her, not now or ever.”


	6. Chapter 6

Robin did not miss her home. She had some fondness for some of it - the shifting sand dunes, the sun glinting on ponds of clear water, the wave of palm trees in the breeze, the miles of eroded rock and sand and the interminable swaths of salt and heat and the cloudless sky. It filled her with a sort of faux-nostalgic reverence for the days of her adolescence, her days fleeing the Grimleal - days spent sleeping out in the sand beneath the sparkling stars above, days bathing in oases, walking in the sun and resting in the shade. But Plegia’s natural beauty, its steppes and deserts and rocky mountains are not the heart of the nation. There are deserts elsewhere. There is beauty elsewhere.

Only in Plegia does she have that feeling of dread, that crawling on her skin. The feeling that a horrible mistake is being made with every step farther into that black desert. Plegia had reared its ugly head soon enough - they had rescued the little dragon girl, Nowi, and her protector, and Robin had nodded and listened to her stories of life in the Plegian border towns. It was a story she found familiar, and this girl had been treated no kinder than herself.

It makes her sick to her stomach on the worst days. She knows their march is right, and true, and just, and all those words Emmeryn has gone on and on about, those words forever out of reach for a turncoat witch like herself. But even so, when her magic burns a hole in the cloak of a Grimleal agent, she can’t feel as if she’s enacting the very same horrors that led her to the point she finds herself in. She is the other side of the coin, now. She is the invader, the marching army, the hand that wields the sword that fells.

She sits beneath the stars, crosslegged at the campfire, her book on her lap, and she practices her Plegian. It’s not that she’s rusty - it’s a second language, she knows it better than she knows Ylissean - it’s that it makes the others feel safer. If she tamps down her past, if she pretends to be less Plegian that she truly is, if she buys her own lie, then she can remain a part of the team. She teaches them phrases, little snippets of words that allow them to speak with traders. They are a small band, not an invading force, and the Plegian people have no love of the Mad King, but when they enter towns Robin can see the people bristle, and she can see them huddle in doorways and send harsh glares and muttered, suspicious tones. She walks openly, her hood down, her skin and her fashion plain to see, and she speaks loudly and clearly.

This is her home, but she did not miss it. At night, she lies in her tent, her eyes squeezed shut, trying to blot out the memories of this same trail in reverse - her nights under the stars as she fled the life she swore she would never submit to again. She wakes in the small hours of the night, a pain pulsing in her head, and her senses filled with the smell and sound and sight of Plegian bodies in roadside ditches.

She sits by candlelight, her parchment and her inkwell at her side, and she writes. She tells Emmeryn of the road, and her memories of childhood, and the beauty of sparkling oases in the sun, and shifting red dunes, and the skeletons of great ancient beasts emerging from the rock. She writes of the little dragon girl, and she writes of their fights against the Grimleal, and bandits. She tells of the beauty of the land, and she confesses her fears, she pens her nightmares, her hopes, her dreams, her joys and her sorrows. She writes, and writes, and writes, she fills pages of parchment in the dead of the night when sleep escapes her.

And then she folds her letters into envelopes, she addresses them, seals them with wax, and presses them into the pages of her tome. She fills  _ Ruin _ , first _ , _ and she fills  _ Arcfire  _ second, and then  _ Thunder _ . She is a third of the way through  _ Elwind _ when the news comes to their camp. It is a cold desert evening - the sun sinks beneath the horizon, lighting a line of orange across the desert, and the sand beneath her boots shifts with a muted softness.

A spy comes - their own spy, one of Chrom’s men, and reports that the Exalt is to be executed the following day.

Robin sits at the war table and her gaze passes between the stern looks of her comrades. Basilio speaks first.

“This is it, then.”

Chrom nods. “It’s as Robin predicted.” He raises a grim smile. “Truly she seems to have a second sight for the Grimleal’s activities.”

Robin tries to stifle a sigh. “I know them well, milord. The Mad King is not so mad as to not be predicted.”

“Chin up!” says Flavia, the cheerful Feroxi Khan. “Show some confidence! It’s your thinking that got us this far.”

“And perhaps her thinking that got us into this situation,” Frederick steeples his fingers on the table and leans forward. “Robin, I think it would be best for you to stay at camp tomorrow.”

“What?” Robin protests, leaning forward. “What are you saying?”

“You know what happened last time,” Chrom nods. “We can’t risk something like that happening.”

“But this is  _ my _ plan!” Robin cries, exasperated. “What if…what if something goes wrong, and the plan needs to be changed?”

“Then we will adjust accordingly,” Chrom says. “I will not endanger my sister’s life for your pride.”

“ _ MY  _ pride?!” Robin scowls. “Perhaps I would have more faith if the plan required smashing training dummies, but-”

“Enough!” Basilio’s voice booms through the tent, silencing the argument. “Enough of this. Chrom, take your tactician along. Flavia and I will guard her. If she proves troublesome…” he raised an eyebrow, his meaning clear.

Chrom looks nervously to Frederick before nodding. “Very well.”

Chrom stops Robin before she retires to her tent for the night. He tugs her arm lightly to stop her and frowns. “Robin.”

“Milord,” Robin says softly, unwilling to make eye contact. “I…I am sorry for speaking out of turn.”

“No,” Chrom waves his hand. “This is…it is a tense time for us all. I did not think they would truly have the guts to do it, but…” He frowns. “My sister cannot die tomorrow. Do you understand?”

Robin steels her gaze and looks into his dark eyes. “I have no intentions of letting that happen.”

“Somehow, your intentions aren’t what I’m worried about.”

Robin’s sleep is restless and troubled. Even when she wakes, she doesn’t have the energy to sit and write - she simply lays in her bedroll, staring at the darkness of the tent above her, her mind conjuring shapes and images into the shadow. She thinks of her father - his shadow lies over her every step in this country, whether she likes it or not. She isn’t sure if Marth killed him - it was hazy, and she scarcely remembers the evening save for the pain and confusion, but Chrom assured her he was gone. But somehow that made her feel worse.

And she thinks of Aversa - every time they go into combat with the Grimleal, she wonders if her face will be among the opposition. Her smug smile, and her kind, weary eyes. It has been years; would she even remember Robin? Would she despise her for abandoning her to pain and torture? Or was she dead, executed for her attempted escape?

And her thoughts turn, without fail, to Emmeryn, as they often do in the throes of her restless sleep. Her voice, and her smile, and her kind hands. If the Exalt died, Robin’s life would be forfeit - there would be no one left to vouch for her, no one but her handful of friends in Chrom’s army, but none of them held the same sway as the Exalt herself. Chrom, for all his faults, was right - the Mad King could not take Emmeryn from the people. He could not take her from her family, and…he could not take her from Robin. Her sleep is uneasy, images overlapping in her mind, blood roaring in her ears, and when Lissa rouses her to march she nearly bowls the poor girl over.

“AH!” Robin cries out, shaken from the depths of a nightmare.

“Hey, Robin?” Lissa shakes her gently. “Robin, are you okay?”

“Y-yeah,” Robin sits up, shaking. “A…a nightmare. I’m sorry.”

“Okay, well…we’re heading out. Freddy says it’s time to march, and we need our tactician!”

Robin smiles. Dear, sweet Lissa. As much her brother as her sister. “Lissa,” she says softly, letting the younger girl pull her to her feet. “Lissa,” she asks. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course I do!” she leans in conspiratorially. “Between you and me, I think Chrom being a bit of a stick in the mud about it.”

Robin laughs. “Thank you, Lissa.” As she dresses for the day and emerges into the bright desert morning, she can’t seem to dispel the queasiness in her gut, nor shake off the tremors of her nightmares.

Her plan goes swimmingly. The Exalt’s life is spared, and Chrom’s men sweep through the Plegian outskirts with ease, clearing the soldiers that oppose them. It’s no surprise - Plegian castles were built to withstand elements just as much as soldiers, but once an army crosses the dunes, the hard part is over. Khan Basilio’s men do their job diligently, clearing the courtyard and freeing Phila, Emmeryn’s personal retainer. Robin, her leg half-buried in sand, watches with pride as Phila takes to flight.

The Exalt will be saved. Robin’s heart lifts with joy. She will survive, and the war will end, and…and Robin doesn’t dare question what happens next. For the time being she revels in her victory, her tomes slung on her belt, her boots filled with sand, and she brushes her hair from her shoulder.

Chrom turns to her. “Their wyvern riders have fallen. I’m giving the signal.”

Robin nods, and Chrom lights a prepared beacon. The fire burns hot and fast, pouring black smoke into the sky. Phila swoops her pegasus out across the courtyard, and-

And Robin’s heart plunges into the depths of the earth as Phila’s mount is riddled with arrows. The flash of white turns scarlet in a puff of feathers and barbed arrows, and Phila tumbles like a ragdoll in a dust storm.

“No!” Robin cries, leaping forward, pushing Chrom aside and sprinting towards the courtyard. Phila and her knights crumple to the ground with bloody thumps, their corpses a rainstorm of death in the sandy courtyard, and Robin fights off nausea. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Emmeryn…Emmeryn had to be saved.

Robin stumbles up the stairs into the courtyard and finds herself staring at an army.  _ What? _ She reaches a trembling hand to her mouth, frozen with fear.

Gangrel laughs, his voice booming across the courtyard, past rows of pegasus knight corpses and monstrous soldiers. “Bwahaha! Oh, did an army of living corpses just  _ appear _ out of the blue? Truly, the heavens smile upon the mighty King Gangrel this day!”

Robin scowls and draws her tome, blasting the nearest monster with magic. It dissolves in a hiss of black smoke and crackling energy, and two more take its place. Robin curses. “You bastard!”

Gangrel laughs and turns to face her, surprised to see she has Chrom and his army in tow. “Bwahaha!” he laughs again. “You poor, stupid fools! It’s hopeless, don’t you see? Look at the pegasus knights, look how they fell one by one!”

“We’ve…we’ve lost,” Chrom mutters at Robin’s side.

“N-no,” Robin shakes her head, refusing to accept it. “No, I’ll save her! I have to!” she moves to sprint off into the crowd of Risen and Chrom holds her back.

“Robin, we lost! Give up!”

“No!” Robin tugs against him, heedless of the tears streaming from her eyes.  _ Emmeryn will not fall. Emmeryn will not fall. _ “No, I can save her!”

“You can!” Gangrel agrees. “Grovel, grovel before me, and I may spare your pitiful lives!”

“I’d give up my life before I beg it from you,” Chrom snarls. In shifting his attention, Robin slips from his grip and plunges forth into the crowd of Risen.

Gangrel cackles, too entranced with his own theatrics to notice. “But it is not just your life in the balance is it?”

“I’ll kill you!” Chrom roars, coursing with energy, a sea of monsters between him and his quarry. “I’ll kill you with my own two hands, damn you!”

“Go ahead!” he turns to his men. “If he so much as twitches, let fly your arrows.”

Robin moves with an energy she did not think she possesses - a speed that is almost supernatural, darting between claws and sliding between monstrous legs, her attention fixed on a single goal. A Risen claws her back and she cries out, stumbling in the sand. Another claw rakes her thigh and she limps forward, lifting a hand and sending a vengeful blast of magic into the crowd. She casts indiscriminately, and in the sea of black smoke and sprays of blood and crackling magic, she can see torn parchment and envelopes fluttering in the wind. She stumbles forth, weakly but determined.  _ The Exalt will not fall here. _

_ “ _ Lay down the Fire Emblem!” Gangrel offers. “Lay down the emblem, and your weapons, and the Exalt need not die here.”

“Damn you, Gangrel!” Chrom snarls.

Robin rams her shoulder into a Risen and it roars and slashes her cloak. She spins, not dodging the blow but carrying the momentum into a dash. She’s almost at the far end of the courtyard. She’s close enough that she can even see it - the dark sorcerer summoning the tide of endless corpses and the black pegasus at her side. Robin draws her sword from her belt and plunges it through a Risen, carving a blood swath to the source of all of her troubles.

She shoulders past another Risen and runs, sword and tome in hand, lightning crackling along the jagged blade. She draws it back to swing.

And drops it with a clatter to the sandy tile. Her eyes must deceive her - some trick of the light, some foul illusion. “A…Aversa.”

The dark sorceress draws back her hood, her eyes stern and unflinching.

“Aversa?” Robin cries, letting her tomes fall to the ground as she charges. She throws her arms out and moves to embrace Aversa, who ducks and slips a knife into her side.

Robin cries out and stumbles. “A-Aversa, it’s m-me! It’s Rob…it’s…” she winces and slumps to the ground, drawing out the dagger and letting it fall with a spray of blood. She hisses and presses her hand into the wound. “A…Aversa, it’s…Reflet…it’s…” she winces and stumbles. “It’s…it’s Ref.” She gasps and swallows, the myriad of wounds taking their toll as the adrenaline seeps out of her stab wound.

She blinks back tears. “A…Aversa, it’s…” She coughs and her eyes blur. “P-please, Aversa…”

Aversa stares at her, eyes wide.

High above the courtyard, Emmeryn speaks with clear, somber reverence. “Plegians! I ask that you hear the truth of my words! War will win you nothing but sadness and pain, both inside and out! Free yourselves from the hatred! From this cycle of pain and vengeance. Do what you must…As I will do. See that one selfless act has the power to change the world!”

She closes her eyes. The pain will be healed; the world’s, and her own. And she steps into the void.

“Please, Aversa!” Robin begs, blood trickling from her lips. “I…I need to save her…I…I…love her…”

Aversa stares, unmoved, even as Robin touches her, grasps her face and presses their foreheads together.

“P-please,” Robin mutters, coughing blood. “S-she can’t die, not like this. Not here. I love her…as I loved you,” She pulls back from their embrace. “Aversa…what happened to you?”

Aversa frowns. “Who are you that dares speak to me so casually?” She struggles to piece the memory together, confusion plain on her face. Seeing this woman is…familiar but painful. She knows the tactician before her, and seeing her face fills her with…some emotion, something she can’t place. To see her bleeding out in the sand, sobbing…

Emmeryn begins to speak. And Aversa watches her, listening to the words, and something in her stirs. She walks her pegasus to Robin’s side.

“Go. Save your Exalt.”

As Robin mounts the horse, Emmeryn’s words echo through the courtyard. And Robin turns to watch her speak. And then, silhouetted in the mid-day sun, the Exalt drops.


	7. Chapter 7

Emmeryn opens her eyes slowly. She blinks. Light filters through the open flaps of the tent, and a gentle breeze, and through the opening she can see light, and trees, and grass. There’s a sound, too. The chirping of birds, and the murmur of a stream somewhere. A horse whinnies. She tries to sit.

“Don’t. Rest.” Soft hands take her shoulders and gently push her back down. She tries to speak but finds that she cannot. The words escape her grasp.

“I…where…?

The voice returns, soft and gentle. “You’re in Valm. Well, almost in Valm. A small island to the east, just off the coast. We needed to stop for food.”

“V...Valm?”

The owner of the voice presses her gentle into the bedroll and lies a warm, damp cloth on her forehead. “Just rest. I will explain when you’re stronger.”

Emmeryn does not object - she can’t. Her muscles burn and ache, and her voice fails her, and all she can do is retreat into herself, close her eyes, and sift through the facts she can recall. She remembers being taken by the Grimleal. She remembers the Mad King’s taunts and jeers, and his horrible servants. She remembers being set up on the high spire of rock to await execution.

She bolts upright in bed, and pain sparks through her body as she does. She cries out and strong arms reach for her, wrap around her, and pull her into a gentle embrace.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

“C…Chrom.”

“Chrom is safe.” the owner of the arms tightens the embrace. Emmeryn lets her hand drop to dark, creamy skin pockmarked with scars. She traces one light finger over a fresh one - it’s still red and scabbed over.

“My…bird.”

Robin’s voice is calm in her ears. “You got me.”

“W…where…?”

Robin sighs softly and lets go of Emmeryn. “Valm. We’re going to the Mila tree, to see Lady Tiki.”

“For…the…war?”

Robin shakes her head and turns her attention to a steaming kettle of tea beside her chest of belongings. “No, the war is not our concern any more. Though in the last village I heard that the Mad King had been deposed, so…success?” She smiles meekly and offers Emmeryn tea.

Her shaking hands can’t grab the mug, so Robin sits with her, cradling her head and letting her drink. `

When Emmeryn is strong enough to sit on her own, Robin explains the truth - she had been saved, but her sacrifice meant too much to too many people. Emmeryn protests - her people need her, her  _ family  _ needs her! She has no right to run when so much depends on her actions.

Robin assures her that this is the only choice. For Emmeryn to survive would mean to undermine it all. The cycle of pain and hatred would continue, forever, until the world was consumed by fire and brimstone. Emmeryn’s sacrifice had an immediate effect - Plegian troops threw down their arms, surrendering. The war was over. Chrom’s personal war, one of vendetta against King Gangrel, raged on, but the people were saved. They go back and forth for days while Emmeryn heals, weighing the pros and cons of staying or leaving, but Robin’s case is strong, and Emmeryn agrees, though the decision weighs heavily on her heart. Robin promises her that one day they can return, but not when the wound is too fresh.

It was too much for Robin to confess her fear that she would be rejected for Emmeryn’s death - she had abandoned her friends in their time of need, and the relationship between Plegians and Ylisseans was still tense. She did not want to upset the delicate balance, not at such an important time.

Emmeryn had been saved at great personal cost - as Robin had rather flippantly explained, human bodies were not meant to land on pegasus bodies, even if it was preferable to stone. It was only because of Aversa’s sacrifice that Emmeryn had been saved at all. And if the truth of Emmeryn’s survival came to light, Robin knew, Aversa would be the one punished.

So they left, astride Aversa’s black pegasus. They crossed the desert, with a saddle Robin customized to support Emmeryn’s unconscious frame. After the desert, and after the steppe, they hopped across islands towards Valm, where Robin believed the Voice of Naga could help Emmeryn heal. She said as much, but Emmeryn suspected that Robin meant it for herself as much as Emmeryn.

Their journey is slow, and in the evenings Robin cooks dinner over the campfire, and they sit together and read. Emmeryn manages brief explanations in the snatches of speech she is capable of. She is there, sound in mind, if not body, but some things remain hard. Some memories are gone entirely, and still others are warped or dented. Robin does her best to treat her physical wounds, but she knows nothing about treating ailments of the mind. Even so, she helps Emmeryn regain some memories. They sit together by candlelight and Robin reads her the letters she had been collecting, the volumes and volumes of stories she had penned on the road. She uses them to teach Emmeryn her letters again, and the skill comes back quickly. Emmeryn’s shaking hand cannot hold a pen, but she quickly learns to read on her own, and Robin picks up paperback novels for her in small Valmese markets.

And in the quiet hours of the night, when Robin’s nightmares tear her from sleep, Emmeryn is there to hold her tightly, to press soft lips to her ear, to reassure her that she is not alone. Emmeryn, too, finds solace in her other, and Robin assures her that her choice was the right one. Her sacrifice, her flight. Emmeryn’s doubts and fears and memories wake her just as often as Robin’s do, and they find themselves awake more often than not. Two broken women, twined together into a bedroll, arms clasped and lips softly pressed together in the dead of the night. 

 

The Divine Dragon grounds are beautiful. Waterfalls sparkle in the sunlight, and the trees sway in the breeze, and Robin helps Emmeryn walk to the temple to meet the Voice herself. Lady Tiki is kind, and gentle, and she offers to let the two stay with her.

“What other place for you could there be? An Exalt that cheated death and a vessel who has subverted her purpose?” She smiles knowingly. “For humans, you have a remarkable tendency to exist outside the bounds of your own mortality.”

Robin and Emmeryn share a room in the temple, and Robin continues her lessons, and with Tiki’s help, Emmeryn slowly gains back some faculties. She begins writing again.

“No, no, like  _ this, _ ” Robin clarifies, taking Emmeryn’s hand in her own, wrapping her fingers around the ink pen. “Look, see, you put the curl in the letter here.”

“Plegian…is…hard.” Emmeryn smiles.

Robin laughs. “Sure, but compared to Ylissean verb conjugation?”

Emmeryn tilts forward and presses her lips into Robin’s cheek. “Thank…you…bird.”

“It’s the least I can do, my dove” Robin murmurs, taking Emmeryn’s hand and squeezing. Emmeryn lifts her other hand to Robin’s cheek and traces a white scar along her cheek, from her temple to her jaw. It’s a new one, relatively speaking. A Risen clawmark that matched many others across her body. She cups Robin’s chin and tugs Robin’s lips into her own. Robin matches the kiss with calm fervor, begging Emmeryn closer, and Emmeryn slides a hand to Robin’s waist, urging her forward. Robin kisses her again and feels the brush of fingers on her bare skin, lightly tracing her stomach beneath her shirt.

Robin’s eyes light up, startled, and she pulls back.

“Don’t…like?”

Robin smiles. “N-no, just…you startled me.”

“I…can…stop.”

Robin grasps the back of Emmeryn’s head and kisses her.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a commission! If you liked it, you can get me to write words for you, too! You can contact me at cowboysneep@gmail.com or shoot me a DM at lucisevofficial.tumblr.com to discuss.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


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